A Lie Worth Dying For

They say history is written by the victors —

but they forget to mention:

it’s edited by cowards,

published by the powerful,

and consumed by idiots looking for comfort in curated blood.

Today’s facts are tomorrow’s folklore.

Stamped in textbooks,

smeared in headlines,

tattooed into timelines like gospel —

until no one remembers who started the fire,

only who got burned prettiest.

You think history is objective?

Darling, it’s a goddamn opinion piece

that survived genocide.

A cinema of horror, 

inspired by true stories, 

directed by whoever had the better camera

and a louder god

because inspiration is a great distraction for convenient truths. 

Truth?

Truth doesn't make it into museums.

It's buried six feet under whistleblowers

and philosophers who died broke,

while emperors got marble erections

in cities they never gave a fuck about.

History is a habit of convenience —

a smoke break for dictators,

a loophole for legacies,

a love letter to power dressed in the corpses of collateral damage.

Because humanity doesn't want truth —

it wants a mascot.

It wants the illusion of progress,

the comfort of clean names,

the forgiveness of forgetting.

So we cherry-pick the noble lies:

Glorify the wars,

sanitize the revolutions,

celebrate the speeches

that sounded good

after the bullets stopped flying.

We sell heroism in instalments,

whitewash suffering with subtitles,

teach children about freedom

while feeding them flags stitched from slavery.

Let’s call it what it is:

A script.

With act breaks of massacre,

intermissions of silence,

and encores of propaganda.

The audience claps

not because they believe it —

but because they’re too tired to question it.

And here’s the gut-punch:

You’re not outside the lie.

You are the lie.

Every book, every chapter, every page

that turns complex chaos

into digestible dogma

makes you the co-author.

So no —

history isn’t written.

It’s Photoshopped.

It’s ghostwritten by fear

and published in the language of the winners’ guilt.

And what does that make us?

Humanity?

A species addicted to storytelling,

too afraid of silence,

too ashamed of mirrors,

too eager to believe

that we're the good guys

in a war we don’t even understand.

History is not truth.

It's trauma with great advertising.

And humanity?

Humanity is the greatest lie ever told.

A well-rehearsed myth

about kindness and progress

while we dig our graves in high definition

and livestream the funeral

for money.

So yeah —

write your memoirs.

Build your statues.

Raise your flags.

But know this:

The dirt remembers better than the ink.

And the bones?

The bones don't lie.